


Operation Electric Sheep

by mikkey_bones



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Artificial Intelligence, Gen, robot!Q
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 13:42:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikkey_bones/pseuds/mikkey_bones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just back from her disastrous Istanbul mission, Eve gets put on "babysitting duty" for Prototype W449, known as Q for short.  Experiments with "Learned Bonding," existentialism, and <i>Casablanca</i> soon follow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Operation Electric Sheep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thebatfax](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebatfax/gifts).



> Jumping on to the robot!Q bandwagon, perhaps a bit late; or, 4.5K words of self-indulgence and more to follow. Slight disclaimer: I know next to nothing about computers.

Eve is numb, even after the six hour plane flight, the mandatory debriefing with M, and the night-long stay in the medical facilities.  She remains numb through the psych evaluation, performing the word association automatically:

“Agent?”  _Hands-on_.

“Gun?”  _Weapon_.

“Home?”  _MI6_.

“England?” _Flag_.

“Bond?”

That throws her for a loop.  She straightens, tenses, clenches her hands into fists.  Finally, she says, “Shot.”  And another word follows close on its heels – _regret_.  But she doesn’t say that, doesn’t even admit it until they let her go back to her flat, where she walks around the rooms like a ghost.

This is Eve’s bedroom.  This is her kitchen.  This is her bookshelf full of fanciful authors and books she’s bought but never read.

This is Eve’s television.  Turn it on, turn it off.  Eve’s refrigerator.  Eve’s forgotten, month-old casserole moldering away.

She’s not very hungry, anyway, so she goes to Eve’s bed and lies there like a stranger until she drifts off into frenetic dreams about trains and bridges and taking the shot.

When she wakes up, it’s still dark; her light-up clock says 3:43 AM.  She knows she’s not going to get back to sleep before it’s time to go in for her briefing, so she moves into her living room, turns all the lights on, wraps herself in a blanket, and watches soap opera reruns on the television until the sun rises.

M looks sympathetic when Eve enters her office, arms crossed over her chest, and sits down in the chair facing the desk like a recalcitrant schoolgirl called in for discipline.  As women in a male-dominated organization, in a male-dominated world, they’ve always had a certain understanding.  And M was the one who gave the order to shoot.  If anyone is to blame for Bond’s death, it’s...

It’s Eve, really, because she had a choice.  She could have disobeyed.  Bond would have, she thinks.  The numbness is wearing off a little, because that thought stabs her like pins and needles to her gut.

“Agent Moneypenny,” M says.  “You’ve been suspended from active duty for six months.  It’s nothing against you – standard procedure.  Recent circumstances have put you in a... rather vulnerable position,” she looks down, shuffles papers on her desk, “and you are currently at a high risk of being compromised.  So, for the moment, you’ve been transferred to Internal Affairs.  You chose not to take the optional compassionate leave...?”

Eve shakes her head, imagining a week of sleepless nights and days spent glued to the telly.  Compassionate leave is the last thing she needs.

“Very well.  You’re to be my assistant, but right now we’ve got a post for you in–”

“Ma’am,” Eve says, interrupting her.  M looks up and fixes her with a stern look but Eve, used to this sort of treatment since primary school, is not dissuaded.  “Will there be some sort of... funeral, for 007?”

Some unnameable emotion passes across M’s face, gone in an instant.  “There will be a short memorial service in two days’ time,” she says.  “The invite will go out later today.”

Eve nods, looking at her hands, which are now knotted together tightly in her lap.  “Thank you,” she says.

“Now, as I was saying,” M continues, “there’s a job for you in Q-branch.  I know you’re not familiar with them, but I’m sure you’ve heard of Operation Electric Sheep?”

“I’ve heard of it,” Eve says.  Savvy name.  “But I don’t know the specifics.”

M stands.  “It’s highly classified, of course,” she continues, coming out from behind her desk.  “Come with me,” she adds, beckoning to Eve, who stands up and follows her to the door.   “As you may or may not know, Q-branch has been working on the development of an artificial intelligence capable of interacting with agents on a human level, while at the same time performing tasks will beyond the ability of a single human being.”

They head through the main area of M’s office and out the door, down two flights of stairs, on a familiar route that Eve recognizes instantly – they’re heading to Q-branch.

“OES marks the culmination of our efforts.  In concert with the CIA and the DGSE, along with several multinational intelligence organizations, we’ve created an AI prototype.  The other organizations have their own versions, of course.  And we have Q.”

Eve frowns, but doesn’t miss a step.  “Q?” she repeats.  “But that’s...”

“The Quartermaster’s title, yes,” M says in her typical curt way.  “But Wellesley died some time ago.  And the function of Operation Electric Sheep was to ultimately create an intelligence that could handle the responsibilities of many people, and become the driving force– shall we say, the force that powers our Q-branch.  Of course, since we’re still in the prototype phase, there are several staff members supervising Q’s functions at all times.  That’s where you come in.”

They enter the wing of the MI6 office where Q-branch is located.  Eve knows they’ve crossed the boundary when her heels echo on concrete instead of clicking against linoleum.  Everything here is sparse and built for functionality; these halls are for testing as well as transport.  The staff members get their own plush offices, but they are further away.  Before reaching the office corridor, M takes a left, pushes open an anonymous door, and heads further down.

“Q, or Prototype W449, has been years in the making.  We activated him some months ago and have spent that time tweaking his programs, making him more... personable, shall we say.”

Eve, though she is paying some attention to make sure she didn’t trip on the slick concrete stairs, raises an eyebrow at that descriptor.  “Personable?”

Typically, M doesn’t explain, glossing over her use of the word.  “At this stage in its development, Prototype W449 needs practice interacting with real field agents.  This may surprise you,” she adds, glancing back at Eve with a hint of mischief in her eyes, “but field agents think very differently from Q-branch technicians.”

Eve gives M a strained smile.  She appreciates the effort, at least.  “I’m to help socialize him, then?” she asks.  It’s babysitting work.

They’ve come to the end of the stairway.  There’s a door, and M slips a keycard into the lock to open it.  Now they’re in a bustling room full of processors in stacks taller than she is, lights blinking blue and green and red, as white-coated technicians mill around, all full of purpose, but none that were actually working.  Eve looked around, memorizing faces, positions, movements, looking for exits, her training kicking into gear as it always does in an unfamiliar room.

“You’re to be retrained anyway, standard protocol,” M says.  There’s not much sympathy in her voice.  Eve knows she can’t get out of this.  “You’ll do your training simulations with Q’s guidance.”

“I don’t have any choice about this, do I?” Eve asks, a wry smile twisting the edges of her mouth.

“None,” M replies as they wade through what feels like miles of electrical cabling.  “Here we are,” she adds, as they reach a door on the other side of the room.

A technician hurries up to them.  “M,” he says, looking at the white-haired woman.  “And you must be Agent Moneypenny,” he continues, turning to Eve, who has the familiar pang of regret for choosing a childhood nickname as her _nom de guerre_.  “My name is Sai.”  His badge refers to him as Dr. Chatterjee.  “I’m Chief of Staff for the MI6 branch of OES.  We’ve been looking forward to your arrival.  Q has been notified, of course.”

“Thank you,” M says.

“Speak slowly at first,” Dr. Chatterjee continues, addressing Eve directly, “so that Q has a chance to register your speech patterns.  And stand still for a few seconds, so he can calibrate his facial recognition.  Other than that... interact with him as you would your Quartermaster.”

Eve raises both eyebrows.  She’s inexplicably nervous about this meeting – and that’s good, because it means that her feelings are slowly being returned to her.  “All right,” she says skeptically.

“Good luck,” the technician adds cryptically, and uses his own keycard to open the door.  Even M doesn’t have full clearance here, Eve notes.  But the next moment, the door is opening into a circular room filled with faintly glowing screens.  “Go on in,” he says.

Eve steps forward and is disconcerted to realize that neither M nor Dr. Chatterjee are coming with her.  She looks back over her shoulder, but M gestures her on sharply, so she takes a few more steps before the door shuts behind her.

The lights flicker in the room, and then a boy materializes in front of her.

It’s a hologram – Eve registers that immediately.  It’s not hard; she can see the outlines of the room through the boy's chest, and his manifestation, though startlingly lifelike, also flickers and grows staticky in parts.  He’s skinny, dark-haired, bespectacled, and wearing a brown cardigan.

“Good morning,” he says.  His voice is tinged with a Cockney accent to it, and sounds nothing like a computer.  “Dr. Chatterjee tells me that you’re Agent Moneypenny.”

“I am,” she says slowly, remembering the bit about the facial calibration and speech recognition.  “And you’re Q.”

He smiles.  His mouth is mobile and sensitive looking.  The technicians couldn’t have created this boy from scratch; there was a beautiful model somewhere, Eve thinks.  Q – Q’s hologram – is certainly beautiful.  “Yes, Agent Moneypenny,” he says.  “It’s nice to meet you.  I’m looking forward to training with you.”

Eve watches the hologram.  It’s disturbingly lifelike.  “Am I allowed to ask you questions?” she asks.  She remember Chatterjee’s injunction to treat Q like she treated other Q’s, in the past... but she didn’t often ask them questions.  They would explain everything to her in the beginning, in curt, clipped tones (and with the widespread disdain for field agents) and she would understand it or ask one of the friendlier technicians to clarify later.

“Yes,” Q replies.  “I will answer to the best of my ability.”

“Do you have a body?”

“Body,” Q repeats.  “ _Noun_.  The physical structure of a person or an animal, including the bones, flesh, and organs.  Clarification: You are asking me if I have a physical structure?”

Eve isn’t sure that’s what she means, but she says, “Yes,” anyway.

“My processing power is spread out within the processors in that room,” Q answers, pointing to the door, outside of which M and Dr. Chatterjee wait.  “I use it to create this,” he gestures to himself, “and power these.”  He gestures to the screens.  “My body is in the other room.  But for ease of communication, consider my body to be here.”  He presses holographic hands to his holographic chest.  Where the images overlap, his illusory flesh seems more solid.

“Very well,” Eve replies.  This is eerie.  She looks around.  “What are we supposed to be doing right now?”

“I believe you are to make my acquaintance,” Q says.  “In the films I have watched, humans usually become friends by telling each other about themselves.  Often they go through a crisis together, and become closer as a result.”

Eve raises an eyebrow, taking an instinctive step back.  “Do you want to be my friend?”

“Friendship was not part of the directive, but from what I understand, it would be helpful to forming a working bond between us.”  Q’s hologram sits down, crossing its legs.  Eve wonders how many hours went into programming actions, whether they’re programmed at all or merely mimicked from “the films” Q has watched.  “What are your hobbies?”

Q’s hologram is staring at her intensely.  The black-rimmed glasses seem to intensify his gaze.  Eve frowns.  She doesn’t like this.  “Killing 00 Agents,” she answers bitterly.

There’s a pause that stretches out longer than normal, and Eve realizes she just told MI6’s leading AI that she enjoys murdering her coworkers, his responsibilities.  She licks her lips and swallows, slowly backing away.

“Irony,” Q pronounces finally.  “The results of your recent psychological evaluation state that you are feeling acute shock because you shot 007, causing his death.  That was a joke, wasn’t it?  _Humour noir_ , the internet tells me.  A joke.”  His hologram tilts its head to the side.  “Ha, ha.  Humans laugh at jokes in that way, is this correct?”

Eve feels sick to her stomach.  “We don’t always laugh at jokes,” she says, twisting her hands together behind her back.  “Some jokes aren’t meant to be funny.”

“Joke, _noun_ ,” Q says.  “A thing that someone says to cause amusement or laughter, especially a story with a funny punch line.  Yet you say jokes are not always funny.  I am confused.”

Eve shakes her head.  “I’ve got to go,” she says.

“Goodbye, Agent Moneypenny,” Q replies serenely, hologram flickering out of existence, as Eve rushes through the door.

“Working with AI can be disconcerting at first,” Dr. Chatterjee tells her later, when they’re sitting down together over coffee.  M has since left.  Eve supposes that he is to be her handler for now.  “AI pairs a distinctive similarity to human expression with a distinctly _un_ -human form of logic and reasoning, which can make communication difficult.  I reviewed the logs of your conversation with Q,” he adds sympathetically.  “As you accustom yourself to working with AI, and he accustoms himself to your mannerisms, your relationship should develop more smoothly.”

Eve taps her fingers nervously against the metal table.  The last thing she wants to do is develop a _relationship_ with a machine that will give her nightmares.  (Better that, though, some part of her thinks, than endless dreams about the crowded streets of Istanbul and bodies falling from bridges.)  “If you say so,” she says aloud, instead of anything she’s thinking.

“I suggest,” Dr. Chatterjee continues, “that in order to ensure your next meeting with Q goes smoothly, you script your conversation beforehand.  He has been taught to ask about hobbies, food preferences, favorite colors... common things that people share to form a closer bond.  If you’re interested,” the technician adds with a smile, “he has been programmed with his own favorite things as well.  You could ask about them.  The longer you spend talking to him, the closer Q will become to you.  It’s in his programming as well.”

Eve feels vaguely sick and she’s not sure why.  “It’s like Stockholm Syndrome,” she comments.

Dr. Chatterjee raises an eyebrow.  “I suppose it is,” he says slowly.  “But we prefer to consider it Learned Bonding. That’s the official term.  Ideally, as Q grows closer to you, you will also grow closer to him.”

“But he’s a machine,” Eve, who has never relied too much on technology, protests.  “ _It’s_ a machine.”

“It’s an Intelligence,” Dr. Chatterjee corrects her.  “And at the most basic level, all humans are machines.”

Eve’s entire mind and body rebels against that idea.  “I’ve got to go,” she says, pushing back her chair and standing abruptly.

“Do go talk to him again,” Dr. Chatterjee says.  He remains seated, fingers laced together in front of him, looking up at Eve calmly.  “There’s a file on Q’s development that I’ve had forwarded to your desk.  I’ve also changed your access codes and given you authorization to come in whenever you want.  He gets terribly bored.”

In her career as a field agent – she started training seven years ago and has been running missions solo and with teams for three – Eve has seen many terrible, nauseating things.  She’s done terrible, nauseating things too, like dubiously ethical interrogations and infiltrations, backstabbings and betrayals.  She has killed men and women and killers alike, with guns, knives, and once, a garrote.  She’s felt people die under her hands, allies and enemies both.  She shot James Bond.

Yet never has she been as instinctively frightened of anything or anyone as she is of the Intelligence (the machine) that lives in Q-Branch.  She avoids returning for a full three days, until she starts getting questioning emails from Dr. Chatterjee and cross ones from M, and she can’t take another terrible soap on the television.

Duty and honor.  That, or something like it, is the field agent’s creed.  She walks through the stacks of processors with her head held high, and enters Q’s room like she’s going to an execution.

It’s some moments before Q’s hologram flickers up in front of her.  “Agent Moneypenny,” he says.  “This is a surprise.”

“No it’s not,” Eve replies.  She crosses her arms over her chest.

Q’s hologram tilts its head to the side.  “You’re right,” he says.  “It’s not.  I have been given access to all the cameras in Q-branch.  I saw your approach the moment you entered.  But I wanted to offer you a customary greeting.”

Eve looks around.  They’ve left a folding chair in here; she drags it near the door to sit down.  It’s the plastic and metal kind that she hates, cheap and flimsy under her weight.

“Your heart rate and breathing are elevated above normal levels,” Q says.  When she sits, so does he, crossing his legs in front of him once again.  “This means you are feeling one of several things: fear, anxiety, overexertion, arousal.”

 _Arousal_ , Eve thinks, and wants to laugh herself silly.  “Fear,” she says aloud.  Fear is a weapon.  If you don’t own it, then it will be used against you.

“What are you afraid of?” Q asks.

“You.”

The AI takes a moment to process this.  “Why?” he asks finally.  
“I don’t know,” Eve says.  Her fear rests somewhere in the uncanny valley between reality and unreality, humanity and inhumanity.

“Fear,” Q says.  “ _Noun_.  An unpleasant emotion caused by the belief that someone or something is dangerous, likely to cause pain, or a threat.  I am not a threat to you, Agent Moneypenny.  And I do not yet have the capacity to cause pain to a human, nor do my protocols allow it.”

“That’s comforting,” Eve replies wryly.  She remembers Dr. Chatterjee’s advice.  Scripted conversations, questions about hobbies.  “Last time, you asked me what my hobbies were.”

“Yes.  I remember.  You answered with a joke that was not intended to be funny.”

Eve can’t help but smile a little at that.  Once you admit your fear, it’s easier to overcome, and she forces herself to relax, leaning back in the rickety chair.  “Yes, I did,” she says.  “My real hobbies are baking,” she says.  She hasn’t baked anything for a long time, though.  “And making dresses.”  Ever since she was a child Eve knew she would be a seamstress or a secret agent.  “What are your hobbies?” she asks.

“I enjoy watching films,” Q replies.  “And designing useful things.  My programmers say that they’ll let me make the designs too, soon, once they have the resources.”  He smiles.

Eve can’t imagine Q making things, mostly because she hasn’t quite resolved all of her problems about his body.  She confuses the processors with the hologram and vice versa – does Q have hands?  She imagines the hologram sitting at a table, assembling pieces of metal.

“What’s your favorite film?” she asks weakly.

Q smiles.  “ _The Matrix_ ,” he says.  “It was very unrealistic, but I found the plot engaging.”

Eve wonders who gave Q access to sci-fi films where robots have taken over the world.  “Oh,” she replies. 

“I also very much enjoy Shakespeare movies,” Q says.  “Especially ones that are faithful to the full text.  And _Love Actually_.  Have you seen that film?  I am told that it represents a spectrum of human relationships.”

“A spectrum?” Eve repeats.  If _Love, Actually_ represents a spectrum of relationships, it’s certainly a narrow, whitewashed one.  “Who told you that?”

“Doctor Emma Gaberdeen.  She’s one of the technicians in charge of my socialization.  We watched it together, and then we watched some animated films, but I did not enjoy those as much.  I prefer seeing real people.”  Q’s hologram pushes its glasses up higher on its nose.  The gesture is as natural as it is disconcerting, again, and just as Eve was just starting to feel like she was getting used to this, too.  “What is your favorite film?”

“ _Casablanca_ ,” Eve answers automatically.

Q’s hologram goes curiously still for a fraction of a moment, then says, “ _Casablanca_.  1942.  Starring Humphrey Bogart, Ingrid Bergman, Paul Henreid.  Set in unoccupied Africa during the early days of World War II, where an American expatriate meets a former lover, with unforeseen complications.  Hm.  I have not seen that.  Do you recommend it?”

Eve is taken aback.  “It won three Oscars,” she replies.  She almost went to college for Film Studies.

“Oscar,” Q says after a moment.  “ _Noun_.  A South American cichlid ( _Astronotus ocellatus_ ) with velvety brown young and multicolored adults, popular in aquariums.”  His hologram frowns, looking at Eve  in consternation.  “That’s not what you meant, is it?”

Eve is startled into a genuine laugh.  “Try ‘Academy Award’ instead,” she suggests through her  giggling.  
“Academy Award,” Q repeats.  “Noun. An annual award by the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences for achievements in motion picture production and performance.  Oh.  That makes more sense.”  He still looks terribly confused, the poor thing, and Eve begins to feel her fear giving way to grudging... endearment?

She remembers Dr. Chatterjee’s words: _Ideally, as Q grows closer to you, you will also grow closer to him_.  It’s Stockholm Syndrome by another name.

“If you like romantic movies, you might like _Casablanca_ as well,” Eve says.  “Or,” she adds as an afterthought, “you could just stick with Romeo and Juliet.”

“The Baz Luhrmann version?” Q asks, and his hologram wrinkles its nose.  “I found that very confusing.”

“Or the play,” Eve suggests, amused that the DiCaprio version is the first one that springs to Q’s mind.  ...Processor?  “Do you _read_ Shakespeare, too?”

Q’s hologram tilts its head to the side.  “I can,” he says.  “But I’d rather see it performed.  I find it hard to comprehend without performance cues.”

Eve thinks about that a moment.  She was never been a big fan of Shakespeare, especially after being forced to read his plays year after year in school.  “So do I,” she replies, and thinks of other questions Dr. Chaterjee suggested she ask.  “What’s... your favorite color?”

“Dark blue,” Q answers promptly.  “Like the color of the sky after the sun sets and the stars come out.  I enjoy looking at the stars.”

Eve frowns.  “But you’ve never been outside,” she points out, slipping into the intellectual error of thinking of Q as the virtual body of his hologram, or the physical location of his processors.

“I have access to cameras and digital photographs of the sky.  There are so many on the internet.  I’ve amused myself by finding sky photographs and determining where they were taken, at what time of year, based on the visible constellations.  Do you often look at the sky?”

In London, the city lights are too bright at night to let any stars be seen, and it’s often cloudy as well.  When Eve is in less inhabited areas, for missions, she doesn’t tend to look up very often.  Her mind stays on the job.

“No,” she says.

Q’s hologram frowns.  “This is strange.  My study of human mythology has shown that you have a remarkable fascination with stars and constellations.  The wide range of sky photos and your current experiments with space travel demonstrate that this is not an ancient phenomenon.  Yet you do not look at the sky.”

Eve is uncomfortable – more than before.  She feels like bug under a microscope.  “I don’t have time,” she says.  “And in London, the stars are hard to see.”

“Ah.”  Q’s hologram nods sagely.  “Light pollution.  That is regrettable.”

Eve swallows and nods as well.  “When I was younger, I would go camping in Cornwall with my dad.  Before he died.  We’d light a fire and lie on our backs and look at the stars.”  She doesn’t know why she’s volunteering this information.  She rarely talks about her father to anyone.  Then again, she rarely talks to anyone outside work.  “He taught me about the constellations.  I liked Orion.”

“Orion, the Hunter,” Q says.  “Is it true that humans often place talismanic symbolism in the constellations they favor?  Like astrology, like the Zodiac.  For example, your favored constellation seems to relate to your profession, as well as your father’s.  James Campbell was an MI6 agent as well, was he not?”

“He was…” Eve replies slowly, balling her hands into fists and crossing her arms more tightly over her chest.  She didn’t find that out until long after his death, when M was recruiting her.  To have it said so clinically, casually, by this AI...

“A hunter, like Orion,” Q says.  “The human capacity for symbolism is fascinating.  Did you know–”

But Eve never gets to find out what she does or doesn’t know.  At that moment, Q’s hologram freezes, mouth half open, and flickers, his voice becoming an electronic buzz.  Alarmed, Eve stands up, knocking down her folding chair.  She doesn’t have a weapon on her, so she moves instinctively so that her back is to the door, ready to flee.

A few seconds later, the buzzing stops and Q’s hologram flickers again, then comes back to life.  “Communication from M,” Q says.  “You are to meet with Defense Minister Gareth Mallory, in her office, as soon as possible.”  The hologram frowns, and shifts so that one of Q’s legs is extended, dangling down towards the projector surface, while his other remains tucked under his body.  “I don’t think I will see you again for some time.”

“Do you really get lonely?” Eve blurts out, before she leaves.  That’s what Dr. Chatterjee told her, but surely a computer doesn’t have feelings.

Q’s hologram frowns.  “Lonely,” he says.  “ _Adjective_.  Sad, because one has no friends or company.”  There’s a pause, where Eve waits on tenterhooks and Q’s hologram slowly pushes up its glasses.  “I don’t think so,” he replies.  “But I find it enjoyable to speak with humans and utilize my holographic projector.”

Eve thinks about that, and then nods.  “Goodbye, Q,” she says.

“Farewell, Agent Moneypenny.”

On her way out of Q Branch, she nearly collides with Dr. Chatterjee, who greets her with a friendly smile.  “I see you went in to see Q today,” he says, catching her by the arm so she can’t rush by with just a nod.  “How was your conversation?”

“Fine,” Eve says automatically.  Then, on a whim (or perhaps by instinct), she asks, “What’s Q’s favorite color?  What color did you program him to like, I mean?”

“Green,” Dr. Chatterjee replies, clearly nonplussed.  “What makes you ask?”

Eve shakes her head.  She’s not surprised.  Maybe she should be.  “I’ve got to go,” she says, giving him her nicest smile.  “M’s orders.”  She gently disengages Dr. Chatterjee’s grip, starts moving away.  “Have a nice day.”

**Author's Note:**

> to be continued. __


End file.
